by Gay Courter
“Do you agree with her, Gay?”
“Every time Alicia’s told that story all the details have been consistent,” I said, but I was worried because Grace and Ruth were not persuaded.
Then there was a curious coincidence.
One of my son’s friends, Shane, needed a ride home from an after-school activity. I was going in that direction and volunteered. I phoned his mother, who asked if I could drop him at his stepfather’s upholstery shop, which specialized in boat cushions, canvas awnings, and sails. As Shane gave me directions, I felt as though I had heard them before. “It’s behind North Main. After you cross the railroad bridge, you make the first left turn before the underpass.”
When I saw the building with garage doors on both ends and a boat on a trailer in the yard, I asked,” How long has your father had this shop?”
“About a year.”
I pulled into the parking lot. “What occupied it before?”
“Red’s Marine was here before they moved behind the shrimp docks.”
I braked hard. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
I closed the door and faced the beige toilet. The walls in the large room were apple green. Above the toilet were shelves holding cleaning supplies and a floral deodorizing spray. Feeling dizzy, I sat on the toilet and looked around. There was a bathtub with a shower. Across from it was a woodstove with a bouquet of dried flowers in a teapot.
I stood up, turned around, and faced the walls and placed my hands on top of the toilet tank. My legs had to straddle the widest part of the toilet bowl. To keep my balance I had to stretch my back. A child of nine would have been at least four inches shorter, but if she were supple, she could have done it. Her butt would have stuck out at a very accessible angle. A tall man would have had to bend his knees, but that would make him unstable. To maintain his balance he could reach forward and grasp something—something like the braced elbows of the girl beneath him.
Here was the scene that Ruth had been unable to imagine: the child with her head facing the toilet, her back flat like a table, her arms pinned down by her father, her legs spread wide to bridge the toilet, her vulva pointed in the right direction. Also, if you saw the room, you could see that everything matched Alicia’s description.
Shaking, I splashed cold water on my face and started for the door. With my hand on the knob, I stopped. I turned around again and this time I could conjure Red’s hairy back and legs and arms and Alicia’s soft baby skin and her curls drooped in front of her face as she was being taken by the man she loved most: her father.
First thing the next morning, I told Grace Chandler where I had been, and that afternoon the prosecutor drove out to the upholstery shop to take photographs.
After all the delays, the trial was set for the second Thursday in September. In criminal court there are only two parties to a case: the prosecution and the defense—which excludes the victim. Only fifteen states, including Florida, currently provide for children, who are victims, to be represented in criminal court, in this case by a Guardian ad Litem. However, because the child had no real status in the proceedings, the guardian, who speaks for the child, is odd person out, with little say in how the events will proceed.
The goal of the prosecution is usually punishment, but the guardian representing a child victim may realize that the child’s needs may be in opposition to those of the state. In Alicia’s case, Grace and I had been in agreement, and she had gone out of her way to insure that I was included in every stage.
On the Monday of the week of the trial, I brought Alicia to the courthouse so she could become familiar with the surroundings. To break the ice, Grace walked Alicia around the courtroom and had her sit in the witness’s seat, then in the jury box, and even in the judge’s place.
Alicia giggled as she pounded her hand on the judge’s desk and bellowed, “Order in the court!”
Thinking I would be interested, Grace handed me the list of evidence that would be submitted by the defense. I didn’t know what to look for, so Grace helped me. “Notice that something is missing?” When I shook my head, she explained that Walt Hilliard had not had Alicia’s deposition transcribed. “Now he can’t use Alicia’s conflicting statements about her ages against her.”
“Why wouldn’t he get the transcription?” I asked.
“It’s very costly, and now it’s too late.”
“Does that mean he won’t be able to introduce any of the testimony from his interview with Alicia into evidence during the trial?”
Grace winked at Alicia, who was all ears. “A lucky break for us.”
Grace’s secretary called her to the phone. She hurried out. When Alicia was done playing judge, I steered her back to the state attorney’s office. Grace was still on the phone. She waved for us to take a seat on her sofa, then said a few clipped words, hung up, and swiveled to face Alicia. “Just before you arrived, your father’s attorney and I met in Judge Donovan’s chambers to discuss another plea bargain. The judge said he would consider a plea that included a prison term.” As she stared at Alicia, Grace’s fig-colored eyes seemed to absorb all the light from the room. “What do you want to do?”
“How am I supposed to know?” She turned to me.
As Guardian ad Litem my main responsibility was to be the child’s voice in court, but I refused to stretch this to include second-guessing Alicia’s true feelings. She would live with the consequences far longer than I would. But even at that crucial moment, Alicia’s eyes were partially closing as she made her somnolent escape from reality.
“Alicia!” I said loudly enough to rouse her. “Remember you told me your goals and I wrote them down?” Opening my accordion file, I found the “bagel memo.” I showed Alicia my notes. “Your number one request was you didn’t want Cory ever to live with your dad again. You said that was more important than your father going to prison. Do you still believe that?”
“I guess.”
“How will you feel when you know your father is locked in prison and your decision helped put him there?”
“It’s okay.”
I took a deep breath. “Do you still love your father in some small corner of your mind?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“You don’t want the responsibility of this decision, do you?”
She twisted her hands and her knees were trembling. “No.”
“Let’s take a break,” I said, and led her out of the office.
Alicia backed into the corner of the farthest wall of the bathroom.
“Alicia, whatever you decide is fine with me.” She hugged her arms to her chest. “Now, shut your eyes and listen to yourself. Only you know what’s right for you, but you are hearing conflicting voices telling you what to do. One voice wants to go to trial and see what happens. It wants to give you the chance to tell your story and be heard by a jury. Another voice wants to run away and for this all to be over, no matter what. You might have another one reminding you of your promise to protect Cory.”
I paused for almost a minute. “Now think, Alicia, and listen. And when you are ready, tell me which voice is the loudest.”
As I watched, a transformation took place. Alicia’s crossed arms fell to her sides. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted. Alicia opened her eyes. “Safe … safe and over.”
“You’ve decided that you want Cory safe and the whole business over with?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell Grace that?”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
Alicia strode past me, out the bathroom door, and straight across the hall into the state attorney’s office. She did not pause at reception but put her hand on the inside door like she had seen Grace do and waited expectantly for the buzzer to sound to let her through. I followed her past the maze of desks to the corner office, where Grace was going through a file cabinet beside her desk. Alicia marched in, sat in Grace’s executive chair, and leaned back.
Grace looked over Alicia’s shoulder at me, as though
waiting for an explanation.
“I guess Alicia is taking charge,” I said, smiling.
Grace understood at once. “She’s the boss,” she said, then came around and sat on the sofa in the spot Alicia usually took.
Alicia tapped one of Grace’s pens on her blotter. “My father will have to remain in prison until Cory is eighteen.”
“That’s four years from now,” I said to Grace.
“After that, I don’t care what happens,” Alicia finished.
“A ten-year sentence would work out to about that much time behind bars,” Grace responded. “Is that all right with you, Gay?”
“I’m not in charge, Alicia is.”
“Excuse me,” she said without sounding facetious. “Is that what you had in mind, Ms. Stevenson?”
Alicia leaned way back in her chair. “Yes, it is.”
Grace reached for the extension telephone on a side table and dialed Mr. Hilliard. She made the offer, then waited on hold. “Your father’s there now. Hilliard is discussing the plea with him.”
A short while later, Walt Hilliard was back on the line.
“Are you sure?” Grace asked, surprised. “My deal gets him out while he’s young enough to do something with his life. Any guilty verdict is a mandatory twenty-five years. You want to take that risk?” She hung up and faced Alicia. “He wants to roll the dice. We’re going to trial day after tomorrow.”
The next morning my husband brought me the two local newspapers. One was a metropolitan daily; one was the county paper. Each carried a headline about the case.
The county paper said:
JURY CHOSEN IN TRIAL OF MAN ACCUSED OF RAPING DAUGHTER
Attorneys selected a jury Tuesday for the trial of a local business man accused of having sex with his 9-year-old daughter. The man, whose name is being withheld to protect the victim, is charged with sexual battery on a child less than 12. The girl is now 15 years old.
The regional section of the city paper reported it differently:
A jury has been picked for the trial of Richard Leroy Stevenson, Sr., 43, charged with sexual battery on a 9-year-old child.
Stevenson was sentenced in county courts in the last year for saying “bull——” in the courtroom.
“Oh, no!” I shouted, then phoned Lillian and read her the stories. “One paper says incest, the other says Stevenson. Most people read both papers.”
“Then everyone will figure it out,” Lillian said. “Poor kid.”
“When this is over she’ll have classmates asking her how it was to screw your father. Can’t we do something to protect her?”
“There’s no way to muzzle the press,” Lillian said, “but you could ask very nicely.”
The editor of the regional section was a man I had met many times. He returned my call promptly and listened politely as I pleaded for him not to mention the defendant’s name in future editions.
“Sorry, we’ve made an editorial policy on this case. All we do is report the news,” he said in a world-weary voice.
“I am shocked and appalled by your callous attitude,” I said before I hung up.
The jury was made up of five men, one woman, and one alternate, who was also a woman. Because they were going to be on the witness stand, Alicia, Rich, and Cory were not permitted inside the courtroom to hear other people’s testimony. Lillian decided that I would remain in the courtroom so I could request a closed hearing for the children’s testimony. I’d already asked Grace if the press could also be removed, but she handed me 918.16, the same statute that gave guardians access to the courtroom, which read:
When any person under the age of 16 is testifying concerning any sex offense, the court shall clear the courtroom of all persons except parties to the cause and their immediate families or guardians, attorneys and their secretaries, officers of the court, jurors, newspaper reporters or broadcasters, and court reporters.
Alicia was given Grace’s office, and she used the prosecutor’s chair and desk as if they were her own. Rich remained with Mitzi, who promised not to let him out of her sight. Marta Castillo supported Cory in an anteroom.
Lillian sat beside me on the right side of the courtroom. Behind us was a group of HRS workers with an interest in the case, some of Walt Hilliard’s staff and family, and Ruth Levy. Fortunately there were not too many members of the general public. Grace Chandler, wearing a black suit and white satin blouse with a black-and-white striped bow tie, took her place at the table in front of me with another assistant prosecutor beside her.
On the left side of the room, Red Stevenson was flanked by Walt Hilliard and his partner. This was the first time I had seen Red Stevenson in a suit.
Before the formal trial began, the prosecutor had submitted a motion to allow the use of the Williams Rule. This would permit her to offer evidence regarding Red’s past history of sexually assaulting other children in order to demonstrate that his crimes against his daughter were not isolated incidents, but rather one of many example of his propensity to commit the same offense repeatedly. Grace had warned me that employing the Williams Rule was a controversial point of law, but without the judge’s approval nobody could testify that Red Stevenson had committed crimes—for which he had not been charged—against other children.
(Two years after the Stevenson trial, I watched the sensational Florida rape trial in which William Kennedy Smith was the defendant, and heard Smith’s attorney, Roy Black, successfully argue against the application of the Williams Rule. Testimony from other women who had been allegedly attacked by William Kennedy Smith in a similar manner as the victim in the case was not permitted to be given.)
Grace had warned me that if the Williams Rule evidence was not allowed in the Stevenson case, everything would hinge on Alicia’s account of what happened to her, plus Rich’s version of the time he saw his father having sex with his sister. Everyone worried how Rich would do on the stand, and even if he answered the questions adequately, his mental health history could discredit him. Alicia had discrepancies in her story, and she also could revert from being sweet and cooperative to pouty and mouthy, thus coming off as an incorrigible teenager. Then, if Cory testified against his brother and sister, a jury might have sincere doubts about Red’s actions.
While the Williams Rule was debated, the jury was asked to leave the courtroom so they would not be prejudiced by pretrial testimony that might not be admissible in the regular proceedings. Then Grace Chandler told the judge that she would offer evidence of prior acts similar to those alleged in the Stevenson case as circumstantial proof of motive, intent, preparation, and method of operation, as the Williams Rule insisted.
Walt Hilliard objected, saying the rule could not be used merely to prove bad character or even a propensity to commit a particular crime. “Just because someone has done something before does not prove he has done it again.” Also Hilliard called the rule a violation of the defendant’s civil liberties because “he has to defend himself against more crimes when he has only been charged in the indictment with one.”
After listening to sample testimony from two of the children as well as one of Red’s ex-wives, the judge determined there were several similar methods of preparation and intent, and thus agreed to allow Williams Rule evidence. This was a blow to Walt Hilliard, who returned to his seat obviously disgruntled.
There was a brief break to reconvene the jury and gather the witnesses. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, so I didn’t leave the room. Some of the reporters milled around in the aisle. Casually I asked who was representing the paper that was printing the Stevenson name. The reporter introduced himself as Sterling Bailey.
“As Guardian ad Litem for Mr. Stevenson’s daughter, I spoke to your editor,” I said loudly, “but he refuses to change his stance and will continue to use this defendant’s name, even though the victim just started high school in this town.”
Mr. Bailey shrugged.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the disapproval on the face of the
woman reporter with the county paper. “Thanks for not mentioning the names,” I said to her. Then, while I had her full attention, I turned back slightly in the other reporter’s direction. “Mr. Bailey, later today you are going to hear shocking testimony from the defendant’s daughter. As her Guardian ad Litem I speak for this child. So one last time, I beg you to ask your editor to reconsider his position and hold the family name confidential.” My next move was unplanned, but I was determined to make my point. I fell to my knees in the aisle of the courtroom. “Please, on my knees, I ask you to change your mind.”
The mouth of the female reporter gaped. Another member of the press jabbed Bailey in the back until he offered me a hand to help me to my feet. Without another word I went back to the seat, hearing the buzz of the reporters in my wake.
Grace Chandler crossed to the podium and moved it so that it was centered in front of the jury box. With her back to Judge Donovan and her profile to my side of the room, the prosecutor commenced her opening statements. As soon as she began speaking, I heard a loud ringing in my ears and my stomach heaved. Until that moment I had approached every phase of the case in a logical, and I hoped, compassionate manner. I had listened to intimate depositions from the children, heard Alicia describe having sex with her father, watched deviant interactions between the Stevenson children, as well as Cory and his father. I had read reams of files and had helped uncover information on the death of Mr. Stevenson’s first wife and had accidentally visited the crime scene. But suddenly I was overwhelmed—and shocked—by my emotional response to the import of the moment.
“You okay?” Lillian whispered, squeezing my hand. Later she told me I had turned so white, she thought the blood had drained into my shoes.
I nodded, even though I was unable to control my rapid pulse or racing thoughts. What if … what if Alicia had made it up? What if I had been drawn into her fantasy? I observed Red Stevenson’s hunched back and tried to imagine what it must be like to have your children turn against you. Don’t forget, I reminded myself, this was a man who had six wives, one dead by his hand, a few others abused. There had been other children who claimed to have been hurt by him. Many aspects of his life fit the profile of a pedophile and yet even with everything I knew, it was hard to believe.
